


Fool's Golden Heart

by Likorys



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Mental Health Issues, Hallucinations, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Stregobor gets his due, they both don't realize it cause they're both bad at feeling, which means very painful death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29754861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: What woke him up was, unfortunately, business as usual as well.Geralt was trashing on the ground, jaw tight enough Jaskier would’ve feared he’d break out his own teeth if he didn’t know better, choked gasps and muffled moans the only thing to show he had nightmares.Jaskier has been traveling with Geralt for years by now and he learned how to deal with everything - long walks, cold nights, hard ground, bland meals, even witcher's nightmares. But even his patient finally runs out and a fallout will get bloody.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 98
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	1. Chapter 1

The evening was going on as usual – after another hunt Geralt went off to bogs and forests unknown to gather plants Jaskier couldn’t ever hope to name from memory, while Jaskier himself went to enjoy luxuries such as an actual bed and dinner other than bland roasted meat in a local inn. He spent an evening singing and indulging in stew and beer, while also letting himself be charmed by Stiepan, innkeeper’s son, into bed.

Then it all went to shit, and Jaskier was very much resentful of how little it surprised him, because when was his life ever easy since he met the Witcher?

Which is what he decided to blame on the fact that after giving a pretty good blowjob and taking his shirt off, he then had to spend a good hour convincing the poor man that _no, he wasn’t Witcher’s abused sex slave,_ _even if he had bruised on his arms and throat that distinctly matched human fingers_. That he managed to spin the tale about some vampiric nasty they faced while roughing it out in the forests coherently enough for Stiepan to believe was a miracle in and off itself. Especially since Jaskier was lying trough his teeth, at least partially, as the purple bruises on his skin definitely matched Geralt’s hands.

Except, like always when it came to witchers, that wasn’t the full story and he wasn’t about to let rumours spread by his own stupidity. There were enough of those slandering witchers circling around already.

So Jaskier spent an evening learning about a herbal paste for bruises, overpaid for his room and when morning came, he made for the hills. Or _bog_ , in this case, because he found Roach tied down by the stinky wetlands Geralt disappeared to yesterday. She was grumpy enough to try and eat his hair, which he thought they were past since good dozen apples ago.

It was, once again, just like his witcher and equally irritating each and every time it happened. Mostly because there was yet to be a time when it didn’t end with Jaskier ruining his clothes as he trudged through whatever wilderness Geralt got lost in to drag wounded witcher back, since the stubborn idiot never could just leave it alone when he found some monsters.

“He’s truly a moron, isn’t he?” he sighed, petting Roaches mane, thinking it his payment for letting her lick off the very expensive oil form his hair. He gave himself a few minutes, just for the sun to actually rise, before he tied his bag and lute-case to the saddle.

Then took the small knife he knew was held there as well and tied it around his waist before slowly walking along a darker, sturdier looking path between reed-filled marshes. He learned his lesson about going unarmed four times already, and wasn’t in a mood for getting attacked or a lecture from Geralt.

At least finding his witcher was pretty easy this time – he had no idea what he fought, but a circle of scorched marsh that somehow stunk even worse than everything else around was easily found, even if not easy to stay in for long. He managed just enough to find half-conscious Geralt and then start dragging him back to Roach.

His witcher came to himself a little middle-way through, because of course Geralt would wait till Jaskier was soaked from trying to find safest path before he opened his damn eyes. He wasn’t all there yet, which Jaskier blamed on the nasty cut on his arm oozing some sticky, dark mess.

Still, he managed to stay on his feet and walk as long as he was kept upright and pointed in right direction, which was much better than dragging him over damp, sticky marsh which managed to swallow Jaskier’s shoes before he even found the witcher.

By the time Jaskier let Geralt fall onto the grass in a small clearing, he was exhausted and had to force himself to get up and bring Roach over to them too. He reminded himself she had his lute and kept mockingly gasping out lecture he knew he’d be sure to receive if he left her alone and Geralt ever found out. After that he just made sure witcher was breathing before letting himself fall to the ground for a much deserved rest as well.

What woke him up was, unfortunately, _business as usual_ as well _._

Geralt was trashing on the ground, jaw tight enough Jaskier would’ve feared he’d break out his own teeth if he didn’t know better, choked gasps and muffled moans the only thing to show he had nightmares.

Well, at least that’s what Jaskier called them, but they were probably more like night terrors. He heard about those at home, when his uncle visited and complained that ever since _that little sludge accident where barely anyone died_ , his mine workers were costing him fortune on poppy vodka to keep them sleeping without someone’s screams setting off one another and making them all useless from exhaustion. Since meeting Geralt, he saw things like that saddeningly often, in people who survived attacks by the monster of the week at a cost of their sanity.

Whatever was haunting Geralt wasn’t just a bad hunt, that Jaskier was sure of, but what it was? That he had no idea about. What he knew was that it’s better to wake Geralt from them, even if he knew what it’d cost him. Which was bruises on his wrists and throat, because for some reason his dumb, delirious witcher always went for that in particular. At least Jaskier hoped it was the delirium and not conscious choice, because his singing wasn’t _that bad_ , honestly!

He gave it a moment, to make sure it wasn’t one of the times where the terror went away on its own. It happened, though more and more rarely, which was honestly making whole situation even more worrisome.

In the pattern of how shitty this day continued to be, the terrors continued, so Jaskier sighed and sat on the grass, then moving to kneel before Geralt. He pulled arms out of the sleeves of his shirt to wrap their fabric around his neck, then took a deep breath and shook Geralt by the arm.

The effect was instantaneous. Witcher’s inhuman reflexes still made Jaskier jump and flinch even on a good day, but in those moment he couldn’t even _see_ when Geralt moved, suddenly just unable to breathe as fingers tightened around his neck, wide hand crushing close to his elbow.

Usually, Jaskier would’ve waited the moment it always took Geralt to look at his face, to notice his eyes, which seemed to snap his out his the attack response. It didn’t break the delirium, so his witcher never seemed to remember any of it, which Jaskier usually thought was lucky. Geralt could barely tolerate him on a good day, refusing any help he ever offered, so admitting to witnessing at such weak moment would probably mean being left alone at first opportunity, so Jaskier accept the fact that this was his due to being allowed to travel with Geralt, except…

He was tired. He still had old bruises, he was soaked and shivering from cold, exhausted after a sleepless night spent keeping witcher’s reputation intact and sore from dragging Geralt here.

After dealing with _this_ , whatever it was, for months, he finally had _enough_ and just smashed his forehead against witcher’s face. Predictably, he got an instant headache and not even a bruise to show for it on Geralt’s face, because he’d swear witchers’ bones were turned into metal or something, but at least Geralt snapped out of his funk and let him go.

Jaskier felt petty satisfaction for exactly one moment, before those shiny yellow eyes widened almost comically and he was dropped like hot coal. He was still gasping for breath when Geralt stood up and run, _actually_ run for the hills – or rather the marsh, a suspiciously convenient wave of wind coming in and making it impossible for Jaskier to try and keep up.

He expected many things, but the pure horror on Geralt’s face was… not unexpected, but the sheer surprise underlining it was.

As Jaskier sat up and stumbled closer to Roach, just in case Geralt tried to wait till he fall asleep to leave without him, he wondered. Did his wicher not know, what he was doing? It was possible, but also utterly heart-breaking, because he could easily guess why.

Who else beside him even saw witcher sleep? He had no other companions that he knew of, he didn’t visit brothels, he didn’t stay in inns even when they had money for it. Even if anyone did witness it, like healers of his clients when he required rest when wounded, they probably didn’t bother waking him up or were too afraid to. Which, fair point, as Jaskier’s throat still hurt whenever he took a breath. Understanding this, however, did nothing to sooth the burning rage that this discovery sparked in him.

Of all the injustices in witcher’s life, this drop somehow made the cup spill over. Luckily, maybe, since the rage at least kept Jaskier awake until Geralt came back, a soaked leather satchel in his hands.

Oh, the herbs he went for, right, Jaskier probably should’ve looked for it when he found him…

He shook off the thought to keep focused and clutched at Roache’s saddle.

“We need to talk.” He said, hoping for stern tone and sound like someone stepped on a frog. He tried to at least keep staring at Geralt as he made fire. That he could do for ages, he was stubborn enough and his witcher damn well knew it from a week he spend singing the same song in loops when Geralt complained about his songs a little bit too much.

It was petty, as was clinging to Roach so witcher cloudn’t leave without touching him, but Jaskier wasn’t above pettiness to get what he wanted – or, in this case, do what had to be done.

Because clearly just tolerating this thing wasn’t working and almost brought them a lot of trouble.

“I said we need to talk!” He repeated, sounding even worse when he tried to raise his voice. All he got was a fleeting glance and a grunt accompanying a shake of witcher’s head.

Oh, they were not playing this game anymore!

“We will talk or the next time you’ll be one trying to convince someone I’m not your abused sex slave for half of the night!” He screeched, which he would like to blame on indignity, but the pain shooting in his whole neck was probably to blame.

And then he heard Geralt mumble something and his heart broke into pieces, because it sounded close enough to _I’d deserve it_ that there was little other it could be.

“No you don’t!” Jaskier hissed, standing up on shaky legs to march right up to Geralt and then plopped right in front of him. “You’re not gonna go and wallow in self-pity without an explanation this time!” He stabbed a finger at chest, or at least tried, except the witcher swayed in a way that prevented him from being touched.

Which only ground those broken pieces to dust, because that’s not what Jaskier wanted!

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Was forced between clenched teeth and Geralt’s grip on a branch looked tight enough to come close to snapping the wood. Usually Jaskier would respect it, because he know how precarious his standing was with the witcher, but-

“Well, I don’t want to be bruised black and blue for trying to wake you up!” He snapped, crossing his arms. He put them through the sleeves earlier, but his neck was still uncovered and must be looking even worse that it did when Stiepan saw it, given recent abuse.

The way Geralt’s eyes zeroed on it before he quickly looked away, the dark shadows under his eyes and the tense set of his jaw, made him falter, but when a calming breath made his throat sting he forced himself to keep at it.

“I can’t keep waking you up from those night terrors if this is the result.” He bit his lip, hesitating, before he decided to fuck it all. It was nasty trick, but this wasn’t just about his bruises, this was about Geralt being utterly miserable and Jaskier just wanting to help his damn friend! “I might be useless with magic, but I know exactly _one_ _spell_ , Geralt. A useless trick to get into the head of my lover, to find out their dirty desires, and I’m not above using it on you when you sleep to get some explanation.” He almost spat out, till he was out of breath, fingers clutching at his sleeves.

It wouldn’t give him much, it only worked for a second or two, letting him see trough someone’s eyes and giving an echo of emotions they felt. It left him exhausted for a few days, because he really was useless with magic – his parents were severely disappointed when all the money used to send him to Ban Ard ended up being wasted. He took petty pride on the fact it forced them to allow him to attend Oxenfurt…

He cut this train of thought, focusing back on Geralt, trying not to think about how easily witcher could just leave him, the pestering idiot that he is, without any right to demand answer from him. He was fine on his own for years, even after Blaviken, so obviously-

Jaskier froze and groaned, wondering if it’s worth it to provoke Geralt into actually hitting him or something – not that his infuriatingly kind witcher would, but he’d deserve it. Because how stupid can he be, honestly? He spend last two years fixing Great’s reputation and never once did he wonder if that’s what’s hunting him?!

He takes a calming breath and forced himself to relax his fingers.

“Or I can just keep guessing.” He said slowly, eyes fixed on Geralt staring into the fire. “Ask about the pretty broach you keep at your sword till someone recognized it, or maybe actually go to Blaviken, that’s be a-

“Don’t!” Geralt snapped, branch snapping between his finger, eyes wide and once again so terrified it broke Jaskier’s heart.

“Well, I need _something_!” He snapped to, because he was getting frustrated and wasn’t exactly feeling well enough to have that much patience to begin with and-

“Why do you care?” Geralt hissed, voice absolutely filled with venom. “Ran out of song material already?”

“You did not just-!” Jaskier started to snap before he bit into his hand and forced himself to breath.

No, getting insulted over this won’t help anything. They need to talk this trough, damn it, not scream at each other before he leaves in indignity and-!

 _Fuck_ , Geralt was probably trying to do just that, wasn’t he? Provoke him into leaving or at least focusing on something else. His overblown and utterly faked ego was always easiest way to get a raise out of him.

Fortunately, having people actually like his songs helped, so he just forced himself to breathe for a moment and then pulled his hand away, trying to ignore deep teeth imprints in his skin. The fire made him stop shivering from cold, his clothes felt much less disgustingly glued to his skin, he got back the feeling in his feet and hit throat slowly went to familiar throbbing and not outright pain. He can deal with a grumpy, anti-social witcher, right?

“Beside the fact I don’t fancy getting my throat crushed every other night, you’re my friend and I want to help!” He said, tone still much less calm that he’d like, but it was as good as it would get.

“I’m not-!” Geralt stopped himself, suddenly, just looking at Jaskier. Or rather looking right through him and Jaskier had to focus on not fidgeting, wondering if that’s how monster felt when he found them during a hunt. “I’m… not. Your friend?” He repeated, though he sounded much more unsure with each word, brows furrowed as if he found a piece of puzzle that didn’t fit anywhere, the last word raising slightly into almost a question.

Jaskier took a breath again, to stop himself from feeling insulted. Because how can Geralt even think this, after he sacrificed three years of his life to trailing after him through worst wilderness and doing his best to fix his reputation, even when all it brought him was being chased away with words or stones?

But then his words stuck a cord.

_Why do you care? Ran out of song material already?_

He remembers Oxenfurt, other kids brushing him off since he was either too poor for proper nobles and too rich for those without any titles. It changed quickly when it came out how obsessive he got over writing songs, pure practice making him good enough to ace the assignments. Suddenly everybody wanted to talk with him and it took him embarrassingly long to realize that it always ended in talking about their coursework and getting rhymes if not entire verses out of him.

It broke something in him and he started giving out the worst drivel possible, until people left him alone. They all did, but not Priscilla – she had stopped asking for help, but still talked to him and hung around, until he asked her what did she do it for.

_Why do you keep at it, think I’ll help you again if you pretend to be my friend long enough?!_

_I just thought we **were** friends. You don’t need to do anything for me, for that._

Gods, Geralt sound just like he did back then and it made Jaskier feel sick to his stomach. He swallowed the acid, cringing when his throat hurt in protest.

“Geralt?” He started, slowly, as if he was approaching hurt animal. Judging by the way witcher visibly flinched at his words, he pretty much was. “Do your- _whatever_ you do to know when people lie. Smell me or listen to my heart or whatever, just-!” He took a shaky breath and brushed his hair away. “You’re my friend, damn it! I feel awful you ever- fuck, no, I-I just-! “He rubbed his face, wondering where all his fancy words and poetry went when he fucking needed it the most. “I feel awful if you think otherwise, cause it means I completely failed as friend, since I never noticed.” He tried, hoping it made sense and that the panic sending his heart into wild trashing in his chest didn’t make him sound like a liar. “I just want to help.” He added, resigned to Geralt’s judgement and just hoping he did well enough.

Why was it all so damn hard, they managed fine for last few years, didn’t they?

He bit his lip.

 _Managed fine_ , his ass, how can he even think that when it took him a year to notice the terrors, because Geralt wouldn’t even sleep near him? When it apparently took him till right now to notice the witcher thought he was- he wasn’t even sure actually, just stalking him for the fun of it?!

He took a calming breath and risked looking at Geralt, but witcher’s face was unreadable as he just stared at him.

“I just want to understand. I can deal with the bruises, but I’d much prefer if I could make you stop having those nightmares altogether.” Jaskier sighed and moved to sit closer to the fire. He was stubborn enough to wait however long it took to get witcher talking.

Pretty late to start acting like Geralt’s friend, but he hoped it’s better late than never.

It took long enough that his clothes dried and his stomach started twisting from hunger, the sun low enough on the sky to paint it in reds and purples, but Geralt did finally talk. It turns out Jaskier was right – it was about Blaviken – but then his witcher talked more, and more, and all Jaskier could think about was how he’d give anything to be wrong instead, as soon as he heard about Renfri.

Renfri, the curse of Black Sun and _Stregobor_.

The name was familiar – Jaskier was pretty sure the bastard was one to sing off on his dismissal from Ban Ard, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The mage held not only position of power in academy, but a certain degree of continent-wide fame, liked in enough courts that Jaskier knew to keep his name in mind should he ever meet him. A helpful mage, seeker of knowledge and one you should turn to if magic was giving you trouble. Bastard sure knew how to build his reputation, just as well how to destroy others.

Stregobor’s position and favour among kingdoms’ royals meant there was almost nothing that could be done to make him pay him his rightful due!

Jaskier looked at Geralt, chewing on his lip and tapping out a mindless melody on his knee. His witcher fell silent, eyes closed and breath unnaturally even, so he must’ve fell into meditation. Probably for the best, if the way his voice shook by the end of the tale said anything of how difficult it was for him to talk about it at all.

Jaskier really needs to get his shit together and do everything to convince Geralt they were actual friends. If just his songs and fixing his name wasn’t enough then he’ll take on Stregobor, that should be proof enough, right?

Because there was _almost nothing_ \- except for his songs. Of course making one about Renfri’s tragic fate would still land Jaskier in as much trouble as any outright attack would, but it had an advantage. Should Jaskier be put on trial, he’d easily weasel his way out by playing up plausible deniability – Blaviken’s story was only spread in rumours about the murderous witcher, so he’d just be spreading words about another one of his witcher’s stories, because who was he to know any better? Should Stregobor want to get rid of him, his songs would only spread faster. Should he want to kill them off properly, he’d have to prove they were wrong.

Jaskier doubted the curse was actually real and even if it was, few people would agree killing off children was a way to go about fixing it. Not to mention ending a royal line, no matter how insignificant, might endear him to some common folk, but not to any other aristocrats. They might hate each other, he knew it all too well from family parties, but the only thing they hated more was outsiders messing with them.

Jaskier looked over Geralt last time before standing up. He took a blanket from Roache’s saddle and put it around his witcher before setting out with a change of clothes, in search of a river and some quiet.

For this song would be a second one he made in secret – right next to silly, lovesick verses he’ll never utter to another soul.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier spend the rest of summer and entire autumn composing, the longest time in his life he gave to a single song. It had be perfect – not only for Geralt, but for Renfri.

At least the story was on his side. People loved tragedies and putting those high above them in their place in the only way they could, by striking their egos and fame. That Stregobor killed innocent children and turned the continent against Geralt only made it better.

The higher they sit upon, the harder they fall, after all.

There was even a real chance the mage wouldn’t get support from Ban Ard, as it’d be much safer to just cut off an individual over putting the school under scrutiny. Jaskier might’ve be send away after only a month, but he saw more than enough to understand perfectly why schools of magic kept their secrecy.

When the song was finished, he first snow was falling by the coast. It worked in his favour, actually, since Geralt left early to reach his winter home and wouldn’t come back till spring thawing was here. He knew it all too well since he was the one spending winters on convincing people witchers didn’t just forsake them for the harshest part of the year, but instead hibernated to keep up their inhuman strength and heal from dangerous fights.

Somehow he was still waiting for Geralt to ever hear about it. He should’ve, with the way they got gifted random foods as autumn ended, but he wasn’t gonna bring it up first. His witcher had enough issues with his singing already, he wasn’t gonna get into fight about value of truth versus poetical liberties _again!_

His witcher being gone and himself spending winter between courts and royal parties gave Jaskier perfect opportunity to spread the song far and wide before Geralt could protest or Stregobor could catch wind of it and nip his work in a bud. He started by the coast, close enough to Kerack there was real risk of being caught by his family, but it gave him another advantage – everybody knew about his disgrace. Royals would easily recognize him and just as easily be lured into thinking that poor Julian still held some sympathy for the proper people.

Simple bard spreading such tale would mock them, but a runaway hier was someone trying to give them justice despite his falling out of grace.

After all, it wasn’t only witchers who holed up for the cold months, mages were as eager to shut in their academies and laboratories, shrugging off any complaints with excuses of studies for the betterment of all beings.

The song worked splendidly, just as Jaskier hoped. The tragedy and injustice, the feeling of being lied to and a clear target to focus all those dark emotions on – it was truly a self-sustaining success. Especially among nobles, who lived off drama as long as it was safely far away, but also among servants and common people, who still saw mages as inhumans who came around and often just left a mess behind, ones who services they could never afford. Jaskier spend years fixing a public image of Geralt, he knew all about how rumours and humans worked _and_ how to use it to his advantage.

* * *

It happened in a another small castle. Jaskier was attending some ball, the young wife of a baron chattering about with her friends before she called on him to sing _that song_. It was now a tossup, whether it means _Toss a coin_ or _Sun princess_ , but even if Jaskier made wrong choice either was usually good enough to keep people happy.

This time, given all moody ballads he sung already at her request, the choice was obvious, so he slowly finished current jig and then changed the tune.

“Stregobor, the mighty mage, was called upon to come in aid to Crayden lustrous, on a day so bright!” he held onto the note and looked around the small crowd close to the main table, to assess how it was going. Few times he was run out of court was the few times he sang it around people too close to the mage to consider any critique of him. Early warning was useful, but people here were mostly curious, few of them making faces that told him they heard of the song already. “For king’s firstborn little girl as many of you must’ve heard, was born on day as black as darkest night!”

Song went on and on, the hook snatching attention and repeating nicely, if Jaskier was ever asked (since Geralt refused to compliment his skills he had to do it all on his own). But what he liked best was the end, which he could often string along, as long as he got enough people to cheer him on as he went on improvising what should be done to Stregobor.

After he got close enough to running out of rhymes he tried to pair up _spit on might face so pale_ with _pissing into mages ale_ , he decided it went on long enough.

“And when true horrors he has met, let him live but not forget! The Sun-kissed princess and the fate much worse than death!” He struck last cords and bowed dramatically, swinging his lute around. It hit something and he raised, apology ready on his mouth – till he saw Geralt glaring at him from under a hood.

Jaskier has long stopped fearing his witcher, but in some moments old terror creptback up. Especially when those golden eyes with pupil thinned into slits were trying to murder him where he stood.

“Geralt!” He cringed as how much his voice broke, overused by hours of singing, as he let himself be pulled by the witcher to a darker corridor. “You could at least let me drink something, I’m positively parched fro-ugh!” He gasped as his back hit the wall and he glared a little at Geralt too, because honestly, what was with this welcome?

“This is your _friendship_?” Geralt hissed, sharp teeth and fangs on display and Jaskier suddenly felt uncomfortably hot from more than exhaustion and animated singing.

He forced himself to focus though, because his witcher’s tone was venomous and he was still glaring daggers at him over- what, actually?

“It would help if you explained what got you so hissy, you know.” He said, putting a finger on Geralt’s chest to push him away.

For the first time in all the years he knew him, the witcher didn’t budge, instead crowding Jaskier against a wall, those teeth looking more dangerous with every second. Jaskier clutched the lute instinctively, even if it was a piss poor weapon with how easily it would shatter without leaving even a scratch.

Geralt didn’t talk for a good moment, jaw clenched and brows furrowed, and then:

“Of all the stories.” He whispered, his voice low and tight with something Jaskier never heard from him, making him focus on the sound almost more than the words, not that any more came for another while. “You could’ve used any stupid monster for you songs, but you used her!” was finally snarled into his face and _oh_ , Jaskier had to bite his tongue till he tasted blood to stop himself from shouting back something nasty he didn’t mean and would never be able to take back.

Instead he took a calming breaths trough his nose and slowly put a hand on Geralt’s arm, trying to quiet his heartbreak when his witcher flinched away from his touch.

He was such an idiot.

“Let me explain.” He said slowly, trying to ignore the pain in his tongue. “Please?” He added, absolutely not begging.

It took a while before Geralt even reacted, just looking at him, eyes wide and fangs still ready to tear into Jaskier – whether it would be with insults or bites, he wasn’t sure. Not that it would’ve made a difference, hearing how betrayed Geralt felt, by him song being revealed to him by others with no explanation, was more painful than any wound could ever hope to be.

Finally, Jaskier saw Geralt sniff the air and then slowly move a step back, then another, pulling back when Jaskier gently pushed against his arm. He let himself be led to an alcove by a big window, where they shouldn’t be disturbed. It was a spot far from main hall, far from lights, letting moonlight through the glass and smell of spring flowers trough the air holes above it.

Jaskier sat dawn, pulling Geralt next to him, and then did his best to explain. His rage, his sorrow, his grief, all that he felt after hearing about Renfri. His plan to redeem her name, not even to help with fixing Geralt’s reputation, but to bring any shred of justice to her, after all that happened. To punish Stregobor in the only way possible, hurting his name.

It took awhile and Geralt stayed silent, not even looking at him, hands clenched into tight fists and back stiff. Jaskier learned to wait out the heavy silences, least he only make things worse with his useless chatter.

Geralt wasn’t like him, he focused in the quiet and was calmed by silence, not like Jaskier who got fidgety whenever there was no sound and settled more the nosier it was around him, even if only from his own voice.

Finally, it paid off.

“You could’ve _asked._ ” Geralt said, low and so broken Jaskier couldn’t have tried to feel insulted even if he wanted to.

He just pushed closer and slowly wrapped an arm around his witcher’s stiff form.

“I’m sorry.” He said, because it was only thing he could say.

He understood it, a little, when shoved face-first into it. There was probably so much Geralt never got to decide, so much that was talked around him and without his input, this must’ve felt like utter betrayal. And after Jaskier tried his best to prove they were actually friends, no less!

“I just didn’t want you to hear me work on it, or even perform it, if you didn’t want to.” He explained, the excuse lame in his own ears.

Because above all else he didn’t want to be stopped. Renfri deserved justice, Geralt deserved truth to be out there and his witcher was so awful about letting anyone help him! He still hissed and rolled his eyes at Jaskier’s songs, even as they made people warm up to him, so he just-

He though he knew what’s best for him. He though it would go over like always, Geralt would get prickly and glare a little, but get over it, like always… Like when he though they were barely just tolerating each other, when he thought Jaskier was in it only for the money.

Why can’t he ever stop himself, damnit?!

“I’m so sorry.” He repeated, stopping himself before hi choked on his own guilt, and then pulled away. “Please stay? I got a room for the evening, we can go tomorrow – any wild empty road you want, nobody to sing for there.” He offered weakly, barely hiding his sigh of relief when Geralt relaxed a little.

“Fine.” He said, voice still cold and tight, but at least he looked at Jaskier, if only briefly, before standing up.

Jaskier trailed a little behind him, till he saw his witcher go to the table to get some food. Good, it would still do him well to eat up after the winter…

He sat by for a while, strumming his lute in the background and letting conversations around flow into his head so he could try to pick out anything important. There was some talk about the song and about the baron inviting _that witcher_ to get rid of some monster in the vineyard, which made him wonder if he truly got so proud of himself he didn’t notice.

It took a wile before he realized he lost Geralt’s white hair in the crowd. He bit his lip, trying to tell himself that the witcher wouldn’t just leave like that, but after what he did… he wasn’t as sure as he’d like to be.

He got up and almost walked right into a poor servant girl, cup on her tray falling over the edge. Jaskier barely caught it, shimmering, golden alcohol spilling over his fingers.

Right, wine with liquid gold, it was all the talk of courts this winter. He wasn’t a fan himself – it left a cold aftertaste and seemed just a pure waste. Not to mention the risk of messing with alchemy just for a pretty drink.

Right now, thought… he could use something to calm down and he was still thirsty after his performance. He didn’t even get a chance to raise it to his mouth though.

“No, no!” The girl snatched it from his hands, more wine spilling over their hands. “For the witcher, only him! Not humans.” She explained in a whisper. “Sir got special recipe, from a friend, only for the witcher!”

Jaskier frowned a little, but nodded and let her fret over whipping his hands with her apron before he let her go away.

He raises his hands and sniffed at them, coughing at the stench of pure alcohol coming off them.

That wasn’t wine.

It could be nothing, probably. Witchers were famously unable to ger drunk, Jaskier saw enough people lose money when they doubted it. It could be just a baron finding something stronger just for them and nothing else, and yet…

Jaskier walked trough the crowd, performing bare minimum of socializing while he tried to find his witcher, finally hearing someone mention he walked into gardens. Jaskier made sure to remember the old lady’s name and face before he calmly run to the corridors and then into the vast garden.

Moon was bright on the sky when it peaked between the clouds, so after some wandering it was easy to spot Geralt’s hair, a spot of white between dark planes of wheat just outside of the castle’s proper garden.

Jaskier run, at first, but then each of his steps got slower and slower the closer his got, till he was just standing in front of Geralt, shell-shocked.

He smelt alcohol, but also fresh blood, and there was a wet, meaty squelch between barely audible sobbing. Jaskier knew those sounds, heard them all too whenever he snuck after Geralt to see him fight, but there shouldn’t be anything to fight here-

Then moon broke between clouds again and Jaskier los his breath.

Geralt stood in front of him, face place as chalk and wet with tears, eyes almost black if not for a thin ring of gold around the blown pupil.

“G-get out.” He gasped out, eyes unseeing even as he stared straight at Jaskier. “Ca-can’t get it o-out-!” He sobbed, fingers digging into skin between the torn fabric of his shirt and slipping over fresh blood that trickled down from torn skin, clothes getting soaked more by the minute.

Jaskier swallowed down bile and threw his lute aside before forcing himself to slowly move closer.

“Geralt?” He called gently, remembering the stench of alcohol, _special recipe, from a friend_ , how could he be so stupid, so naive….! “Geralt, it’s me, just Jaskier, can you hear me? Can you tell me what’s wrong?” He asked, making sure to kick the wheat around and make noise as he moves, so he wouldn’t surprise Geralt.

But Geralt wasn’t looking at him, or at least he wasn’t seeing him. His haunted stare went right through him as he mumbled the same thing between choked off sobs, hands still trying to dig into his stomach, armor ripped open and the shirt torn to pieces.

Jaskier bit his lip and then sighed before he came closer. He put hands on Geralt’s shoulders and slowly whispered the words of the spell, wondering what kind of twisted luck befell them to have him use it, after all.

_He choked on his own tongue. The moon shone as bright as the sun, casting dark shadows from behind the clouds._

_They stood before him, the women – no, a woman, her multiples, bright red shirt peeking from under leather armour to match ginger hair, face twisted in anger. They cried gold, eye open wide and unblinking. They bled it too, from wounds in their necks, shiny liquid seeping out into their clothes, cutting into them just like the broaches on their chests, just like his blade cut short their lives. Their mouths moved silently, out of sync, fists clenched and skin deadly pale._

_He didn’t meat to, didn’t want to, never wanted it for her!_

_He looked down, gold sticking to his finger and seeping from his flesh._

_Out, dig it out and get it clean, that’s all he can do, get it out of him!_

Jaskier gasped as he came to himself, shaking on his legs and feeling the blood rush to his head, the sounds muddled by a buzzing sound. It was the longest he manages to keep this spell up and it never felt to real, so vivid and-

Geralt blinked and all of Jaskier’s limited attention was on him. He couldn’t hear him, but he knew from the movement of his mouth he said his name.

A bloodied hand touched his cheek and he said something else, before falling to his knees, Jaskier going with him as the witcher held onto his clothes. He thought vaguely he’ll have to throw them out, blood impossible to get out of silk, and right after felt sick with himself for ever thinking something like that, right now.

The wails he came to, shaking fingers clutching at his clothes and the hot breath against his chest, were almost unbearable. He still forced himself to wrap his arms around his witcher, blood boiling in his veins.

“Never again.” He swore, white hair coarse on his chin, his cheek as he pulled Geralt as close as he could. “He will never hurt you again.” He swore and closed his eyes.

The song was much too little.

Stregobor will die, by his hand, his pathetic existence sacrificed to give Geralt’s back his life.

Nothing else could ever be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

It took time, to figure out exactly what happened.

Jaskier spent good half of the night in the wheat field, holding Geralt close and repeating the same vicious promises in loop, till he became hoarse and then lost his voice. Close to sunrise the effect of whatever Geralt drunk lessened enough that he could pull him onto wobbly feet and slowly walk to his room.

Then he spend most of the day just watching over him and repeatedly emptying sick bucket between coercing his witcher to at least drink some water with honey.

A servant girl came by at some point, but he refused to leave Geralt’s side, so his talk with the baron and his wife happened with the poor girl running back and forth. He had half a mind to offer a nightly fun to repay her for all the trouble, but… he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

He knew he fancied Geralt, he always had a thing for his family’s muscly workers or the guards in any court he visited. Except with the night terrors and their talk and how much he failed his wither, with the poison induced hallucinations and the way Geralt still found some shred of comfort with him, despite how much he let him down, how he caused this all-!

It changed things, somehow. He wasn’t sure when, how or why, but somewhere along the line separating from Geralt became an unbearable thought. Somehow his suffering made his blood boil that much stronger than any vile business they encountered along the years.

Because _how dare he_. How dare Stregobor destroy Geralt’s life for so long and now come back to haunt him, how dare he manage to hurt him again, just because Jaskier was so stupid and let his guard down?!

The baron wasn’t pleased with being used like this and his wife even less with Temeria’s hero almost dying in their home. They let them stay for the few days it took for Geralt to recover before sending them off with supplies and a promise of helping in any way possible to repay the mage for his sick games.

Jaskier knew he would use it, but for now his attention was focused blindly on Geralt, who had yet to say a word to him since that night. He drunk and ate at Jaskier’s prompting, but on his own just sat by and stared into space. Jaskier caught him rubbing at his throat or stomach so many times that he asked if they could leave, in a cheap ploy to keep his hands busy with Roach’s rains if nothing else.

They walked, in a cruel twist of irony fulfilling Jaskier’s promise to walk the empty roads, keeping to the deep forest after only a day. Jaskier kept his complaints, never speaking about his sore feet, cold nights or bland roast, just trailing after Geralt and reminding him to stop for a meal and rest when it got dark.

It was- terrifying, honestly, to see someone he witnessed slaughter monsters with easy become so vacant and haunted.

He knew witcher’s were ageless, fighting till they were killed, so he just – he assumed Geralt was used to the death and maybe even the bad reputation. He seemed wary of his help at the start and never complained about people treating him worse than dirt. Hell, he’d faster hold Jaskier back from punching the vile insults out of their mouth with their teeth!

Jaskier never felt so helpless and guilty in his life. Especially when the night terrors returned, his witcher trashing on the ground, muffled screams replaced by choked off sobs and hands scratching at his throat. After one night, when it happen one time to many times, he just pushed their bedrolls together and they promptly laid down onto Geralt.

“You gonna have to _get through me_ to hurt to hurt Geralt of Rivia, witcher.” He mumbled, too tired from little sleep and worry and guilt to care how silly he sounded. “He’s my good friend, I’ll have you know and nobody hurts him on my watch!” He bit his lip and took a shaky breath. “Not if I can stop it.” He added, squirming a little to fit his head to best cover witcher’s troath.

Geralt didn’t respond, but when Jaskier woke up his arms were heavy on his back and it was close to noon, the longest they managed to sleep since they left the castle. He expected to treat it as a fluke, but then night-time came and Geralt stopped and made camp all on his own, their rolls stacked on top of each other.

It was a little awkward, so Jaskier just sat by Geralt and laid on him again, like a glorified blanket, hoping the cover of the night hides his blush.

“Mhh, you’re lucky to be so comfortable warm, my witcher.” He signed and stretched slowly, face almost smushed against Geralt’s neck. This close he could feel the scabbing scratches drag against his own skin. “I don’t just go cuddling with anyone.” He added, smiling when he felt Geralt shake a bit, the tiny huff of a laugh more than he saw from his witcher in weeks.

It went on for days, the terrors violet enough to wake Jaskier up so he could calm Geralt down. He expected it go like before and at first it did, his shirts torn and his back scratched bloody, but after a while Geralt seemed to reclaim some of his control.

He made stops for food and for rest on his own, too, leading them alongside a river that would end next to a small town as soon as they passed the mountains. It was another month away, but it was progress, so Jaskier wasn’t complaining.

“I forgot.” Geralt spoke up suddenly, one evening, as he was sharpening his sword. Jaskier swallowed down the rest of his rabbit stew and put the bowl aside, to move closer.

He looked over to the broach set in Geralt’s sword and laid his head on a broad shoulder, wrapping an arm around witcher’s back.

“Green.” Geralt took a shaky breath and rubbed a finger against on of the stones on the broach. “Her eyes were so green- I forgot them.”

Jaskier bit his lip, hesitating before be cuddled closer.

“They were gorgeous.” He agreed, somehow supressing a shiver at the memory of vision he stole from Geralt. He still felt no guilt over it, but he didn’t feel good with it either. “Just as her hair was most beautiful shade of red I have seen…” He added and bit his lip again. “Give it a little time and you’ll find her paintings in Oxenfurt, if you let me drag you down there for a visit. We artists love our tragedies.” He forced out a laugh, too worn down by guilt to keep quiet.

There was a beat of silence, before Geralt asked:

“Is that why you stay?”

Jaskier hesitated, again, fingers brushing mindlessly trough white hair.

“That’s not why I love you.” He said finally, gently, and then let himself babble, launching onto the precise list of all the things he adores and admired in Geralt. If only to keep him from responding, because it was easy to deal with being left after one night of fun with someone he barely knew, but this- thig would hurt.

More than he could imagine and he wasn’t sure if not more than he could stand.

Luckily, Geralt wasn’t keen on interrupting him, just listening and adding an occasional hum or huff of laughter. He fall asleep during his monologue and Jaskier just pushed him gently onto their bedroll and laid down to sleep with him.

It got as close to normal as it could, after that, the words coming out more and more, the haunted look showing up less and less. The night terror stayed, still as painful even if they lost the violence, Geralt just shaking with quiet sobs until Jaskier woke him up. He was wary of them even stepping a foot into town, but hoped something familiar like hunting mindless beasts might help his witcher at least take his mind off things.

For once he stayed obediently in the small town, using this as a chance to finally start planning.

He had to find out what exactly Stregobor did, to make sure he suffered exactly the same fate in exchange. It took time, money, calling in almost all of Jaskier’s favours and using a good bit of blackmail material he still had from his years in Kerack and Oxenfurt, but he finally discovered the truth.

About witchers going extinct, schools destroyed and ancient recipes lost to pillages. About black markets willing to deal you whatever was scavenged from destruction, for a right price. About Stregobor’s dealings that let him acquire a recipe for something called Black Gull, an alchemical alcohol strong enough to make even a witcher hallucinate.

Jaskier still remembers the stench of alcohol on his finger and how red they stayed in following days. It’s easy to figure out what happened – it’s why loathes himself so much for ever letting it take place, because it’s so predictable.

He calms himself down with few convenient letters, about magical tonic sending people into frenzy or outright killing them, including exactly what the significant ingredient was – an acid from some rare monster whose name he could barely write down without losing letters. There would be no more chance for Black Gull to be slipped to Geralt, or anyone else for that matter.

After that, Jaskier started planning. He knew Stregobor wouldn’t just fall for a ruse, so he instead opted for honesty. He invited him to meet in an inn, for a talk, if he wants to settle their differences. With the price of the acid becoming insane with how many kingdoms put restrictions on it, alongside the song becoming more and more popular, he wasn’t surprised the mage agree.

You don’t get to live this long, act this vile, without a good sense of preservation. Jaskier just had to hope dealing with _puny little human_ would make Stregobor lose just enough of his smarts to get himself killed.

He planned it carefully, after settling a deal with a sorceress waiting till Geralt went on a longer contract, making him promise to be back by noon of next day. Jaskier found an inn, easily getting a room for his dealings and even another for a night, even as he tried to gently refuse it.

Then it was waiting, for the mage to show up and for his plan to come to life.

True to his obnoxious self, Stregobor just appeared from a portal, robes properly magnificent and a scowl in his face.

“Bard.” He almost spat out, looking around warily. Jaskier almost wished he has something to surprise him with, but he just waited, pouring them both a drink.

“Sit down, Geralt wont jump from under the table.” He mocked when it took too long for mage to do anything.

“I don’t fear him.” Stregobor hissed, but sat down stiffly. “What do you want?”

Jaskier smiled.

“The song is bringing me good coin and I don’t appreciate someone trying to kill off my golden goose.” He said, lies sliding easily from his tongue.

It was only thanks to his childhood, meals spent stewing in venom and waiting till you can be excused, self-control the only thing between him and a beating. Some of Oxenfurt’s worst professors operated just the same, so he never lost the ability to sit by and smile at someone while his blood was boiling in fury.

“So what do you _want_?” Stregobor repeated, eyeing the cup.

Jaskier shrugged.

“Make it all disappear.” He threw with a bored expression, reaching for his own drink. “Make a good show about curse being a sham or something, or lie she turned evil after the run and used Geralt to get you, that you never planned it all, whatever you want.” He took a careful sip.

The cup was special, made by a sorceress, with a slit by the edge to make it appear liquid had drained if you tilted it enough. It let him pretend to drink the golden wine, the shine hiding the trick.

Stregobor cast him a doubtful stare.

“And why should I believe you will do anything in exchange?”

Jaskier smiled. He drunk the clean wine before, his teeth probably still covered with gold.

“I care about money, not making a monster I’m babysitting happy. Make this whole mess go away and we’ll all walk away happy.” He lied, words getting out easily even as they cut into his throat.

Stregobor clearly didn’t believe him at first, but then must’ve noticed Jaskier’s clothes and the wine. He made sure to look his most vain, in rare silks and soft leathers.

“That can definitely be arrange.” The mage reached for a cup, brow raised in a challenge.

Jaskier toasted him, hoping the cup trick worked again.

Luckily it did and after that, he had to suffer minute after agonizing minute of carefully making Stregobor stay, if only to finish the bottle. In recompense for all the trouble, lying trough his teeth he never meant to put him in danger, just made another silly song as he did for years.

It took time, but after the first cup Jaskier knew it was a done deal. He still goaded the mage to drink more, knowing the wine would hide the symptoms till it was too late.

“This golden wine, I say, one of the best things those pesky nobles have created.” Stregobor licked his lips and put his cup down, or at least tried to. He hand shook, the last sip of liquid spilling onto the table.

Jaskier smiled viciously.

“It’s not golden wine.” He said, pushing his own cup away. “It’s my own invention, you see? Pyrite, not gold… well, _fool’s gold_ maybe!” Jaskier chuckled to himself, watching as Stregobor tried to focus his gaze on the liquid sipping into the table. The shine was different, more metalling and cold, but it was hard to catch unless it sunk into something. “Quite a bit of iron in this one, I’m afraid – not enough to kill you so quickly, not on its own, but with a little help of a sorceress… here we are!” he stood up and threw his arms around, smiling with childish glee as Stregobor tried to stand up and only stumbled, falling onto the floor completely.

The retching that followed almost set own his own gag reflex and he backed away a little.

“You bastard!” The mage coughed up blood alongside the insults, holding himself up on trembling arms.

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Excuse you, I’m a proper child born in wedlock.” He mocked, watching as Stregobor tried and failed to get himself up. Even his magic wouldn’t listen, the demeritium which spiced up the drink doing its job to make him utterly defenceless.

_It wasn’t nearly enough_ , it’ll never come even close to what Renfri and other children must’ve felt, to how much Geralt suffered through the years, but it’ll have to do.

“Liar’s mineral killing a lying mage, it has a poetic ring to it, don’t you think?” Jaskier slowly came closer. A spark of lightning flashed in the air, but all it did was burn some lines into the floor as it fizzled out. “Too bad I won’t be able to sing about this, I could spin some good rhymes… maybe I’ll still make something up, just for Geralt.” He laughed at the reaction he knew it would get from his witcher.

A lecture, before a convenient rabbits materialized for a stew Jaskier liked best, with salt and possibly some spices way out of season. Geralt was sometimes adorably predictable – that’s why he loved him so much, after all…

“You’ll r-regret it!” Stregobor stopped trying to get up, laying defeated in a heap in his own bloody vomit, face flushed an angry, feverish red. “I-I will ha-haunt-!” he cut off, hacking up blood. It already turned pink with fluid which should be flooding his lungs right about now.

“ _Haunt me?_ A death of a bastard getting his due?” Jaskier laughed and crouched to look the mage in the face. “I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, viscount de Lettenhove.” He said coldly, gabbing the grey hair to pull Stregobor’s head up, forcing him to look into his eyes. “I’ve lost count of how many children in our family never lived to draw their first breath, just so my parents wouldn’t lose hold of the title. Most you’ll do is make me lose my appetite.” He smiled, all shining teeth and cold satisfaction as Stregobor started to curse before choking on his own tongue, pink spittle dripping from his chin.

Jaskier was lying, of course. He remember each and every one, eleven until he run as soon as he finished Oxenfurt’s most basic course. He didn’t hope it would stop it – he just couldn’t stand to be aware of it any longer.

Stregobor spat blood at him, but before he could do anything else his body seized, the force of it bending his spine and ripping him from his hold. Jaskier made a face, reaching for the edge of mage’s robe to wipe his face clean.

“That’s faster than I planned.” He stood up, looking over at the clock tower visible through the window. “Geralt won’t be here for a while yet and I hoped he could finish you off…” He complained before shrugging lightly. “I would’ve liked to let him send you off with an act of mercy, but this will work just as well.” He smiled.

It took half an hour of seizures before Stregobor stopped moving, his limbs twisted unnaturally and his face dirty from scratching against the floor and drooling bloody fluids that were flooding his lungs.

Jaskier watcher over every moment of it, growing bored, but keeping at it to make sure. Mages were tricky, he wasn’t gonna risk him ever coming back to hurt Geralt again!

He laid a blanked on the floor and pushed the body onto it, for easier moving, before he got to cleaning the floor. He was renting the room for dirt cheap – the owner’s wife born just a few days shy of the damned eclipse, both of them more than happy when he explained why he was inviting this particular mage for a little dinner and nightly stay. He wasn’t gonna insult their generosity by leaving behind a mess. The stench of dead body and emptied bowels would already take days to air out.

After all was done he sat by the table, humming with glee and swaying on a chair as he finished his own, clean cup of wine. Not that he would’ve minded drinking Stregobor’s one – demeritium wouldn’t hurt him and he had little pills of charcoal to swallow, which would absorb the poison before it could start working. The sorceress made sure he would be safe, not happy about one of her trade abusing his powers either.

He didn’t have plans for the body. There were things he would like to do, of course, from public display to burying it in some random swamp, never to be recovered. Maybe feeding it to some monster, gods know there are always enough of those and then Stregobor could actually serve some purpose-

Geralt all but stormed the room, eyes wide and golden, sword ready in one hand and the other held lose, fingers one movement away from a Sign. The door banged against the wall and Jaskier let out an undignified squeak of surprise before pushing away from the table, to tip the chair over.

It was almost entirely intentional, Geralt moving faster than human eyes could see to grab his clothes and keep him from falling. It came at a price of his clothes choking him off, embroidered fabric cutting into his neck and definitely leaving some bloody scratches, but it got his witcher’s attention and that was his goal.

“Fi-fine!” He choked off, holding onto Geralt’s arm as he let him slowly pull him up and onto his feet, chair forgotten on the floor. “I’m fine, darling, what got you storming here ready for war?” He asked, pretty proud to manage a soothing, soft tone despite his throat feeling as if every word cut into it on its way out.

“Smelt blood.” Geralt almost barked out the words and _oh_ , Jaskier felt stupid. He should’ve thought about it, he just wiped the floor clean, but Stregobor still laid in all of his bloody glory.

He sighed when his witcher let him go as soon as he was sure he was fine, only to stand in front of him and look the room over. He saw him tense when he spotted the body, then flinch as he must’ve recognize it.

Jaskier took a steadying breath and slowly put a hand on his back.

“I promised you he’d never hurt you again.” He said gently, slowly, hoping Geralt did remember it despite the delirium still holding onto him as he made his promises.

His witcher didn’t move or speak for irritatingly long while, before he slowly straightened up from battle-ready half-crouch and turned to look at Jaskier. Who had to use all his self-restrain not to kiss the sweet mix of awe and confusion off his witcher’s face – at least not immediately

“I love you, darling, and will never again let anyone hurt you like he did.” He said and after that, well, he never pretended to have that much restrain to begin with.

The second room definitely came in handy.


End file.
